subconscious channels

 

the lizard brain’s hunger for reassurance is a curse. it devours faith like prey, to be spit out, mangled and unrecognizable at some later date, when misfired synapse firings turn into memory lapsing and the truth of what once was is shredded; discards of its former self.

our dependence upon this: how do we lose it? as for myself, i think only of the seasonal ebb and flow, where if all societal restraints were let loose and indulgence were absolute, i might climb into the most remote of spaces and spend countless hours, losing track of reality, in order to find destiny. i might repeat the pattern of current verbal meanderings without so much as a second thought or second guess as to who might be reading and when — but operating simply for the pure quest of it; all else sorted with the rest of it, when rest at last finally hits. not the rest at the end of a long day, when achey muscles vibrate like a warm throbbing massage, lulling you into a thoughtless coma… but the type of rest that comes from so fully exploring some corner of your mind or body that for a series of extended moments, you think, albeit incorrectly, that you have reached the end: there are no more thoughts to think which are worthy of thinking, and no more movements to move which the body is capable of moving.

yes, THAT absolutism, i am thinking now, is a remedy to the lizard brain’s nit-picking tittering impulse to lick lick lick and click click click its way into endless itching. to forget those minor instances of satisfaction, which are never truly satisfying, really, through seeking out the deep scratch; the massage penetrating into your bones and your soul, to discover the scared child or the self-conscious person, or whichever other true reason, you need reassurance despite the fact that you already ought to be assured, day in, day out, of your worth.

2018 december 26 _ 1:29am _ livermore, california

crestfallen, she attempts to scry with pieces of obsidian — jet-black volcanic rock, smooth to the touch but capable of cutting with its jagged shards. she tells herself of birth and destruction; trials by fire and self-immolation, as she takes note of the light upon its surface. modern light, yes — not even candlelight — as present day brings with it its own challenges; movements that are no longer back to the land, for no land is around to be seen…

they tell her that it will happen if she looks hard enough, while at the same time keeping her eyes in soft focus so as to not look hard at all. the way of the universe. nonchalant in its command of how best to demand you to obey. your want; your loss. your wish; your lack.

“is she a warrior or am i?” mona asks as she peers into the solid black pool. it is her third attempt today — frustrated as she was by two other instances where her sight also failed her. not the sight of everyday life, mind you; she could see perfectly with hawk-like precision the smallest of text from across the room, and practically count the hairs on a stranger’s head as though she were a creature meandering through its rugged tangles — but sight, she thinks, as she learns to dance a shadow flight, is of multiple types. how best to induce it?

2017 november 5 _ 4:30am _ seattle, washington

wanna grow lion’s mane mushrooms and climb on ripe vines and become a poisonous dart frog in the night. psychedelic lick me and see stars — for however capable i am of reaching the spiritual high plane, it can’t be accomplished alone. necessary to skyrocket off one another, free-falling turned step-stair upwards — reaching out like rockclimbing, vertical ascent — to embrace the full abyss of romance and cluttered mindsets, without expecting too much. without believing it’s been figured out. ain’t nothin been figured out. ain’t nothin been proven in this game of self-conscious history — just the fluttering flit of eyelids, barely clinging onto reality.

2017 november 17_ 8:11am _ minneapolis, minnesota